


never tear down common ground

by futureboy



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Crime Scenes, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Murder, Talk of dead bodies and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 20:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: Through these eyes, nothing’s what it seems - not her case, not her best friend’s taste in guys, and certainly not any member of the Fake AH Crew.[Dr. Hardy, a coroner within a threatened LSPD department, takes her best friend Jeremy, a forensic artist, to gather evidence with her. Written for the RT Writing Community Secret Santa.]





	never tear down common ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tawnwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawnwriter/gifts).



> [RPF disclaimer: Written according to guidelines set by RT employees (to the best of my knowledge). This is a fictional series of events using characters inspired by real people.]
> 
> Happy Secret Santa, Kirstie! ♥

 

_I don't need no fire to show me how to spark  
Hallowed be thy enemy, I'll lead you through the dark. _

[(DMA’s, Do I Need You Now)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjDuxhphBd8)

 

* * *

 

 

The corridor leading to the morgue is stark blue. The deserted floors give harsh lighting room to stretch out, because god knows the dead don’t stretch.

And it looks like she’s gonna have to get used to it being a little emptier from now on, too - it’s already a joke that she has to work on a high profile case without assistance.

Now it might be all of her cases.

Steffie kind of wants to lay Captain Freeman out on her slab.

Her superior waves a dismissive hand lazily. “We have more than enough police officers.”

“…Without medical training.”

“They can be trained.”

“I don’t understand how you’re working out this budget,” Steffie says, laughing hollowly. She’s fuming. “How can you get rid of the people in this department? These jobs? There’s always gonna be dead people in Los Santos. You can’t change that, Freeman.”

And Freeman whirls around, looking equally as pissed off: “stay in your lane, Doctor,” she sneers. “All the evidence we need is at a crime scene, not in some civilian’s pancreas. Don’t you have a stomach to go and weigh, or whatever it is you do? I’m sure that’ll really help with your mugging case.”

“It’s not a mugging,” Steffie retorts.

“Yes, it is,” the Captain says, patronisingly, “and I’d bet a million bucks Kingpin Ramsey has something to do with it. A mugging gone wrong is a Fakes move, you know that.”

Steffie wonders if pulling out the woman’s tight bun might make her relax enough to unclench around the stick up her ass.

“Get back to fisting your corpses, Hardy, or you might find you no longer work for us. Mark my words.”

Steffie bursts through the double doors leading to the morgue, pulls on her blue gloves so violently that one of her hands bursts through the thumb on her initial attempt, and pulls out the drawer which houses Senator Chavez. Anger’s bubbling in her throat with a vile burning sensation. She can’t fucking _wait_ to tell Jeremy about this bullshit. The night shift usually calms her – not many people can handle being alone with a room full of bodies, but there’s a tranquillity Steffie can appreciate. Today, however, it’s just not happening.

God. Why would you piss off the only department who could make your murder look like an accident?

“Emma Chavez,” she says into her dictaphone, “state senator, Hispanic, female, forty-one years of age. Dr. Steffie Hardy performing the autopsy at oh-one hundred hours… Case twenty-eighteen, three-one-two.”

She shuts it off, and pauses. A couple of things are immediately obvious:

“Multiple lacerations to the face, but not the hands. Gunshot wound to the lower right of the abdomen.”

But then, it’s not her job to stop there.

“Not the hands?” she murmurs. “No defensive wounds. She didn’t try to stop the cuts to her face, but there’s no evidence she was restrained. Huh.” On closer inspection, the blood hasn’t congealed properly in the open cuts – “these were done post-mortem,” she says decisively. “Someone sliced up her face after she died.”

Yeah, it’s not the most professional of observations, but it’s still important. Time to move on to the senator’s stomach.

“Why would a mugger do that after stealing from a mark? These injuries are motivated by something else,” she mutters, “there’s emotion behind them-- Wait. Wait a second.”

She squints.

There’s something shiny in the victim’s stomach. Something small, and circular, and…

Something golden.

“Oh, shit,” she records.

This case just got a whole lot more complicated.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t like this,” Jeremy says, laughing despite himself, “oh, Steffie, this is _bad_. I hate it. Let’s go before anyone sees--”

“No,” she says calmly, “I need you here.”

“You didn’t tell me we were looking for _Golden Boy Gavin_ ,” he hisses, fiddling with his tie, “you just said you were going to get some information from the Fakes! What the hell am I supposed to do, exactly?”

“You’re my moral support,” Steffie says, fully aware of the irony. “We know they hang out here after a successful heist. And if the senator had anything to do with them, then they might be here tonight.”

It’s a packed bar full of well-dressed patrons, with tables lining the centre of the room. Underneath the chandelier there are groups and couples dancing with each other. It’s more upbeat than a ball, but _definitely_ more fancy than a club. Steffie fiddles with her suspenders. The search for answers always brings her to strange and unusual places, and this is a prime example.

“But,” says Jeremy helplessly, “the _Fakes_. Look at us! I look like I’m attending my own funeral. That dude over there looks like he’s ready to read my obituary, he’s been giving me the stink eye for ten minutes solid. And _you_ look like Pee Wee Herman. There’s no _way_ we look expensive enough to be in here.”

“You’re drawing attention to us,” Steffie says. She adjusts her little bow tie. She feels _cute_ , Jeremy, back the hell off.

“This is a bad idea.”

“You’re a bad idea.”

“I’m not disputing that, but--”

“Shush!” hisses Steffie, with possibly more force than needed, and grabs an hors d’oeuvre to push against his mouth. “Eat finger food and keep an eye out.”

It’s hard to keep watch. That much, at least, is certain. Even Jeremy and his artist’s eyes can’t pick out the finer detail, not when every single person in attendance seems to have the same wardrobe and personality. Delicately eat nibbles, swirl the champagne flute, _ha ha ha ahh ha!_ and tip head back, rinse and repeat.

Except for that.

“What?”

Jeremy doesn’t seem to have realised he’s spoken out loud. “I said,” he repeats, slightly dazed, “who is _that_?”

The man in question is tall, skinny, and appears to be made out of sea spray. He’s wearing a blue and white-spattered shirt, as though he’d had a terrible accident with an industrial printer mere minutes ago, and his suit is a stunning navy blue. He’s wearing a _top hat_ , for crying out loud. He’s moving like the globules inside of a lava lamp, meandering smoothly through the crowd, occasionally exchanging pleasantries with folk he recognises.

“Jeremy, no.”

“Jeremy, _definitely_ no,” Jeremy agrees, rather unexpectedly, “he looks amazing, holy shit. That’s too out of my league. I bet I’d have to woo him through the medium of dance.”

“Probably,” says Steffie, tearing her eyes away to scan the crowd. No luck yet.

“His suit jacket has _coattails_. Holy shit, Steff, he’s-- he’s got a _cane_.”

Steffie feels her stare harden as she turns back to the hopelessness that her Plus One had ended up being. “Can you please not cream yourself for five minutes?” she says irritably. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”

“Sorry,” Jeremy says. His lips wander over to the right side of his face as he bites the inside of his cheek: “got carried away. Guess I’m getting used to keeping my eyes open to new prospects.”

Something nasty and heavy descends in Steffie’s stomach at that. It’s rarely pleasant to lack job security, but knowing that you’re going to be cut down, and that it’s only a matter of time, is something else entirely.

“Hey,” she says, more gently this time, “it fine. Seriously. As long as we keep a low profile, you do what you want. Eat a whole pyramid of shrimp bites and wear the cute guy’s top hat, I don’t care. And I’ll try to find Golden Gav. Yeah?”

“Nah, I’m sticking with you,” says Jeremy, and he gives her elbow a little push. “Fight crime and then recline. Solve the murder before taking things further. Pathology before biology--”

“Jeremy, stop.”

“--Close the case before second base!”

“Jesus,” says Steffie, laughing into her hands, and that’s when she’s wetly barged into.

A noise that sounds a little like an ‘ _oh’_ is emitted from the curled lip of an upper class douchebag. “Excuse me.”

“Excuse _you_ ,” says Jeremy, already flaring up, “you just threw bubbles down my buddy. I think you owe her an apology.”

“Jeremy, you gotta stop,” says Steffie. She already knows their cover is blown now, if it hadn’t been already, and that they’re probably not gonna find Golden Gav. At this point, she’s mostly just hoping they survive this fancy event full of criminals and unsavoury sorts. Curled Lip has six inches of height on him and she’s got the feeling that he might be pulled from a personal case if they need a facial composite making.

“I’m not _gonna_ stop, you’re soaking wet and he’s being an ass about it! I’m gonna--”

 _Whack_.

Jeremy, with a shove to the shoulders, goes sprawling. There’s a sudden silence as the attendees nearby snap to attention, ready for a fight. His phone goes skittering across the floor. Random coins and soda tabs, his car keys, a pack of gum, spilling out of the pockets of his suit slacks--

The man, who had looked furious enough to initiate the shove, pales drastically.

“Miss,” he says, turning to Steffie with fear in his eyes, “allow me to extend my apologies, please. I beg of you--”

“And allow _me_ to extend some mercy.”

The cane is gold tipped against the floorboards. A bare hand, tanned against the sea of partygoers wearing elaborate gloves, reaches out, and plucks a bagged golden coin from the debris. He brings the plastic to his face, examining it with a scrunched up expression, and then tips his chin at Curled Lip.

“You’d better get out of here,” he says, “before you’re uninvited.”

Curled Lip looks like he isn’t breathing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, to no-one in particular, before pushing through the crowd to make a beeline for the grand entrance. Not a single person watches him leave outside of Steffie, Jeremy, and their rescuer.

Jeremy scoops up his belongings with a big sweeping gesture along the floor. “Hey, thanks,” he says, “that was getting bad. I can’t believe he pushed me, you definitely came along before anything ugly could happen-- _oh_.”

He looks up at the hand being offered to him, and accepts it gingerly - because, coattails and all, the man retrieves his top hat from the table he’d been hovering by, and places it back on his head.

“Don’t mention it,” says Gavin.

Steffie feels like she’s intruding. Gavin’s hand is still lightly supporting Jeremy’s, even though they’re both stood up, and _far_ too close at that. Jeremy can probably pick out the colour in those mischievous eyes. They’re practically sharing body heat, for god’s sake.

“We got your note,” she bursts out.

“And came to give me my change,” he quips, holding up the little golden coin. He’s taken it out of the bag. “Where did you get it from?”

“A dead chick’s stomach,” says Jeremy, killing any romance in the air.

Gavin recoils. “Oh, shit, I _should’ve_ worn gloves! Bugger _me_ , why didn’t you start with that before I touched it?”

“Didn’t get a chance,” says Steffie, shrugging off her damp jacket. “We were looking for you. Senator Chavez--”

“Is she alright?”

Jeremy winces. “They’re… they’re saying it’s a mugging.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?” he asks.

“Well,” he says, gesturing at the rebagged coin, “it looks like someone was trying to pin it on you. Or at least lead someone with some fucking sense back to you.”

Gavin grins. “Well, I dunno about sense, but yeah, that was mine. I give them to all my contacts.” It falters, and he exhales disappointment in his next breath: “Emma’s a top lass, I’m sorry she ended up with you guys.”

Steffie has a feeling that he doesn’t mean the LSPD.

“Well,” she says, “Jeremy, uh, knows all the details of the case. We’re not even really supposed to be here, let alone with you and a compromised evidence bag, so...”

“I’ll interview him, sure,” says Jeremy. He looks up at Gavin - too close, too close to be friendly and too close to _not_ be able to count each other’s eyelashes - “I mean, if you want.”

She’s half expecting him to bow, and say something along the lines of _on one condition, love - a dance with the most handsome man in attendance, if you would be so kind!_

But he doesn’t.

“Yeah, alright,” shrugs Gavin, “you wanna grab a drink and find a seat? I’ve done enough chitchat for tonight.”

When Jeremy glances at her worriedly, she sends a dismissive flap his way. “I’ll be fine,” she says, “go have fun. Bring back deets.”

Though neither in their formal wear offers the other an arm, Steffie notes that as they walk over to the bar, their almost shoulder to shoulder.

She feels like she’s made a good, risky decision.

The night air is bracing and refreshing, and Steffie steps out into the darkness with her head and hopes held high. Orchestral music is so much nicer when it’s heard from several fancy rooms away, that’s for sure.

There are smokers and drunk groups and stragglers heading to their cars outside the immediate exit, so she sneaks around the side of the manor to check her messages and call an Uber. It’s around two thirty, so she’s got plenty of time to actually rest up before work tomorrow, if she plays her cards right. She’s not so sure about Jeremy, but she’s got a sneaking suspicion he only agreed to come tonight because of a day off the next morning. And also hot men.

“Dr. Hardy.”

Steffie nearly throws her phone into a topiary. “Holy shit!” she says, “who is that?”

From the shadows, there’s a glassy glint. It’s a gentleman with some charmingly sharp facial hair, tipping a bottle at her in acknowledgement. “You know me and I know you, so don’t cut the shit,” he says, Alabama spraying from his mouth like sawdust. “Come sit.”

And so Steffie, in all her wisdom and none of her self-preservation, perches next to the fourth most wanted man in San Andreas.

“They’re trying to pin this on you, y’know,” she says. “Senator Chavez, I mean. Something’s always been wrong with the LSPD, but this time...”

“Something’s really wrong,” Geoff agrees. “Big Red?”

“What?”

“Big Red,” he repeats, tilting the bottle into the light so that she can see the logo. “I only drink soda. I got more if you wanna share.”

To Steffie’s delight and horror, he opens his jacket to reveal two more soda bottles, tucked into snug pockets at his breast. The horror comes into play when she realises they might traditionally be used as holsters. “Uh,” she says, “sure, why not.”

“You’re one of the good guys,” he says, flipping the bottle cap off and into his lap.

Steffie clinks the bottle necks together and sips. “No such thing, I don’t think.”

“What, good guys? Sure there is. Here comes one now.”

They’re masked under the tree and shrub displays on the side of the drive, but in the illuminated manor entrance, Jeremy and Gavin step out into the evening. They _are_ arm in arm this time. Jeremy’s wearing Gavin’s hat. Gavin’s cane is tucked under his arm. They’re laughing. They seem to be getting along well.

“Which one?”

Geoff purses his lips, then taps his nails against the glass with a light tinkling noise. “I’ll let you be the judge of that,” he decides.

Silhouetted, with the party as their backdrop, Gavin leans down and presses his lips against Jeremy’s, ever-so-briefly. He pulls back as soon as he’d leant in, and they stare at each other, their body language suddenly rigid and unsure.

Jeremy has apparently had enough of this dance.

“Fucking finally,” Steffie mutters.

“Right?” says Geoff. “Gavin did nothing but talk about this guy he’d seen since the party started. There’s only so much homosexuality I can handle in a day.”

“I think those two are gonna try to fulfil their quota,” she says thoughtfully, uncertain as to whether or not she should look away. Gavin’s hands are loose around Jeremy’s jacket, and Jeremy’s hands frame the man’s beard. Plus the height difference is kinda funny.

Okay, yeah, it is pretty weird to see her nerdy artist friend making out with a gang member, and also prime suspect in a case they’re both working, in _public_.

“Aw, man, fuck this. I’m going home.”

Geoff heaves his skinny frame onto his feet and sighs dramatically.

“Goodnight,” says Steffie, and toasts him.

“Night. Enjoy your Big Red.”

Not every case gets solved. Certainly not in a single evening. But amidst all the shit - the gang problems, the grey areas, the corruption and the defeat - Steffie thinks that it’s been a pretty productive day. The soda’s sweet in her mouth as she realises with faint disgust that Gavin and Jeremy have snuck around the back of the building, because _ew_ , that’s her buddy out there.

But it’s okay. There’s no good guys, but there are some folk in Los Santos who aren’t half bad.

It’s interesting to think about what the future might have in store for Jeremy, to be honest. The more worrying matter on her mind, however, as she climbs into her cab, is that Kingpin Ramsey knew her name and title.

But that’s the best part of her job, and her greatest skill. Through these eyes, nothing’s what it seems - not her case, not her best friend’s taste in guys, and certainly not any member of the Fake AH Crew.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, user subs, and comments are ALWAYS appreciated. Love you guys!
> 
> Also, if anyone's interested in me continuing this, I've been thinking about it for almost 18 months. It was the perfect idea to develop for Secret Santa - but I can take it further if you reckon it's worth it?


End file.
